Chapter One – Delirium

Ginny Weasley sat down to breakfast that morning, feeling as if her head were a water balloon filled to the bursting point.  The people surrounding her might as well have been a batch of strangers for as much as she could recognize them through her bleary eyes.  Her stuffy nose could faintly make out the fumes of the burnt toast on the plate in front of her.

"Everything copasetic, little sis?" asked Fred as he slid the butter dish towards her.

"Huh?" Ginny tried to say, then groaned in pain.  It hurt to even make the slightest utterance.

"Are you all right?" asked Ron, looking at her concernedly.  "You look like you spent last night with Dad's stash of Fire Whiskey." 

Fred chuckled over Ron's comment as he tossed another serving of well-done toast at him.

 "You didn't, did you?" Ron asked her suddenly, noticing the dark circles under her brown eyes and the splotches of crimson on her freckled nose.

Fred laughed even harder.

"What are you laughing at?" Ginny tried to say, in defense of her ability to hold Fire Whiskey (this skill had never been tested, but Ginny felt like she could manage should the opportunity ever arise).   Sadly, the only noise that emitted from her sore throat was a feeble squeak that sounded like something pathetically akin to a noise a baby mouse would make.

Fred continued to snicker, while George added in tones of mock sincerity, "Leave Ickle Ginny-kins alone, Frederick.  Can't you see she's got a touch of the sniffles?" 

Ginny rolled her blood-shot eyes and turned to Ron.  "Where's Mum?" she squeaked in her pitiable voice.

It was a good thing Ron could somewhat read lips.  "She Apparated out on an early errand," he replied as he slathered copious amounts of butter on Fred's excuse for toast.  "Maybe we should try to send word to her that you could use some Pepper-Up."

"Eurgh," Ginny vocalized in objection as she clasped her hands over her throbbing ears.  She suddenly had a vision of herself as an eleven-year-old girl steaming like a teakettle in front of – people – she'd rather not have looked like an idiotic teakettle in front of.  The chances that – people – would just show up totally uninvited today was in the highly-unlikely category, but nevertheless, such images were just too emblazoned in Ginny's long-term memory to be ignored.

"Have it your own way," Ron said after seeing Ginny's fervent refusal of his offer to try to get her a remedy for her infirmity.  "Be miserable."

Ginny glared at Ron for not being understanding, even though she knew this was unjust – how was he to remember a seemingly minor incident that had scarred her for life during her first year?  Most people could only identify the major event of that year, but Ginny could pinpoint every, single, ostensibly inconsequential humiliation – especially the ones revolving around certain – people.

She quickly picked up her glass of pumpkin juice and swigged down a couple painful gulps.  That's one…no, two…wait a minute, three…Knuts for the Harry Jar. 

She had made herself a promise in June, not to think soppy thoughts about Harry Potter, and each time she broke that promise she had to put a Knut in what she privately dubbed the Harry Jar.  Last week alone she ended up writing the jar three I.O.U.s until her dad gave her some money for allowance, but at the rate she was going she was going to be writing out even more this week.  And at her current pace, by the end of the summer, her earnings from the Harry Jar would afford her a new set of dress robes from the posh rack at Madam Malkin's and the new prototype model of the Firebolt she saw advertised in the Quality Quidditch Supplies flier in last Sunday's edition of the Daily Prophet.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.  She wondered if vendors in Diagon Alley were currently accepting promissory notes written out to oneself for breaking promises to keep one's thoughts Harry-Free…

"Did you hear me?" a voice said, breaking Ginny out of her reverie.

"Hear?" Ginny said meekly, as if hearing was a foreign concept to her.  "Oh," she said after realizing that it was Ron addressing her.  "You told me to be miserable," she said in barely a whisper. 

"Ten minutes ago I said that," Ron said with mild agitation in his voice, "and I wasn't serious…what I just tried to tell you was that I think you should lie down.  You look bloody awful."

And looks were not deceiving in this case.  Ginny felt bloody awful.

"I expect you're right," she muttered.  She glanced around the kitchen, wondering when and where the twins had gone.  She noticed the heap of breakfast dishes stacked precariously in the kitchen sink.  Mum would have a fit over the fact that they weren't scrubbed and put away, but it made her head ache even more to think about matters of a domestic nature.

"Here," Ron said tugging Ginny by the arm into the living room.  "I don't think you'll make it up to your room, so you'd better make do with the sofa for now."

Ginny's head felt like she was teetering in her dad's old car on a roundabout as Ron whisked her quickly to the sofa and made her rest.  She sneezed as she tried to take a seat. 

"What do you need?" Ron asked.

"Blanket," mumbled Ginny as she curled up like a cat on the overstuffed cushions, sniffling.

"Are you daft?" Ron said incredulously.  "It's got to be 95 degrees in here…" But he paused when he saw Ginny trembling with the chills.  "One blanket coming up," he said, then added, "and a hankie wouldn't hurt, either…if I didn't know better, I'd think you'd put a Bat-Bogey Hex on yourself."

Ginny barely comprehended what he was saying, but she made a mental note to owe Ron a complimentary Bat-Bogey Hex for making that remark while she was incapacitated.

***

"Just a few more minutes, Mum…please…just a few more minutes.  I'm soooooo tired."

Ginny wasn't sure if she actually said those words aloud, or if she was still dreaming.  She felt a warm hand on her forehead and felt the same hand move down to grasp one of her clammy ones.

"She looks awful," she heard a familiar voice say.

Well, I realize I'm not going to win any beauty contests in my present condition, she thought groggily, but really…

She felt someone tug back the fuzzy, Snitch-patterned blanket Ron had brought down to her a while ago.

"She's soaked through with perspiration," said another voice…a soothing voice…her Mum's voice.

"Mum," she croaked.  Oh, Merlin…is that my voice?  She had gone from sounding like a mouse to sounding like a frog.

"She sounds awful," said that familiar voice again.

"She begged me for a blanket," said another voice, slightly laden with guilt. 

Must be Ron, Ginny thought.  I was so cold when I went to lie down before…I feel like I've been dropped in a hot cauldron now.

"Can you boys help me get her upstairs and into her bed?"

That was Mum's voice again.  "Can you boys help…?" The twins must be back, Ginny thought through her haze.

Someone slowly nudged her into an upright position and Ginny's head reeled, making her feel as if she were diving for the Golden Snitch in the final Quidditch match of last season.

"Take that, Chang," Ginny gurgled faintly.

"Huh?" one of the boys' voices said in response.

"She doesn't know what she's saying…poor child's rambling…the sooner we get her up to bed, the sooner I can talk to a Healer."

"No Pepper-Up, Mummy…please," Ginny heard herself whimper.  "What would Harry think?"

"Harry will think you're a sensible girl for taking the proper medicine when you're ill."

"Oooh," Ginny moaned pathetically.  "I owe another Knut."

"She's delirious, all right," she heard Ron say in her right ear.  "And she owes me about twelve Knuts."

Git, Ginny thought.  Leave it to Ron to remember a debt at a time like this.

Several minutes and quite a few wobbly steps later, Ginny heard her mother say, "Here's the bed…boys take it easy now.  Ron, you come 'round here…Harry, you make sure to hold her up as Ron comes to the other side of the bed."  Mrs. Weasley was using her best take-charge voice.  Ginny was thankful her Mum had told Harry to hold her securely and not Ron.

Damn, that's another Knut, she thought.  But wait a minute…

"That's it, Harry…hold her steady…she's swaying…" Mrs. Weasley's voice was getting panicky.

As were Ginny's thoughts.  I'm delirious…Ron said it himself.  I.  Am.  Delirious.  It's Fred's who's holding me up, and every time Mum says his name, I deliriously hear 'Harry' instead…or is it George who's holding me up?  Either way, I'm simply hallucinating.  I think I owe the Harry Jar a couple Galleons at this point…

Ginny tried desperately to pry her eyelids open, just to prove to herself that she was experiencing a good, old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill, illness-induced hallucination.

When did Fred get glasses? she thought desperately as the person who was supporting her limp body came into view.  And since when does he dye his hair black?

"Fred?" she said in her croaky voice.

"'Fraid not," said the very familiar voice of Harry Potter as he and Ron reclined her onto the periwinkle blue Maggie the Magic Magpiesheets she'd had ever since she was six-years-old.

Bollocks, Ginny thought, wishing she could dissolve into nothingness. 

And just then she thought of a good use for her Harry Jar money.  She hoped Harry wasn't too fond of his memories today, because as soon as she could finagle it, she'd be paying someone to use the strongest memory charm imaginable to wipe away what he'd seen and heard.